


When You Taught Me How To Dance

by Silvestria



Category: Timeless (TV 2016)
Genre: 6000 words of Garcy dancing the waltz, Dancing, Downton Abbey References, F/M, Missing Scene, Musical theatre references, Mutual Pining, That's it, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Waltzing, denial is not just a river in egypt, garcy, mutual obliviousness, that's the fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-15
Updated: 2018-07-15
Packaged: 2019-06-10 23:50:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15302787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silvestria/pseuds/Silvestria
Summary: Rittenhouse jumps to Manhattan, New Year's Eve 1910. Lucy, Flynn, Wyatt and Rufus take off in hot pursuit to crash the biggest party of the year. Scenario just a blatant excuse to get Flynn and Lucy dancing the waltz and living out some Downton Abbey fantasies. Could be a missing scene from some point in the second half of S02.





	When You Taught Me How To Dance

**Author's Note:**

> My first _Timeless_ fic and it was written in response to an anonymous prompt on tumblr:
> 
> _Flynn has to teach Lucy how to waltz when undercover at a party in the 1910’s (you can choose if they go undercover as a couple) but I’d love it if you’d slide in some jealous Wyatt here and there and a sprinkle of sassy Rufus_
> 
> I hope this is something like what you want, Anon, and I'm sorry it's taken me so long! Thank you for allowing me to indulge in writing dance fic which is literally my favourite thing ever! <3
> 
> Listen to the playlist of all the music referenced [here](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLuYCQbpd7KCM8Thg2GvJhI01o6fklhJhc) as you read!
> 
> [Find me on tumblr: @misscrawfords](http://misscrawfords.tumblr.com)

The alarm sounded and the team rushed out of their respective rooms, Rufus making a beeline for the console.

“Where to now?” asked Agent Christopher, coming forward, her hands wrapped around a mug of tea.

“New York City,” replied Rufus, his eyes flashing across the screen. “December 31st 1910.”

All eyes turned to Lucy who just shook her head and frowned. “I got nothing. I mean, outdoor schools were a thing, TB was a big problem in some areas, it’s two years from the Titanic…”

“But it is New Year’s Eve,” put in Jessica after a long pause as everyone tried to come up with some explanation for what Rittenhouse wanted with New York at the end of 1910. Lucy glanced across at her where she stood next to Wyatt and suppressed a sigh. For a few minutes she had managed to forget her existence. “That has to be the significant factor, don’t you think? Whatever’s going down has to go down on that day. Otherwise why choose then in particular?”

“Jessica’s right,” said Wyatt and the sword twisted a little deeper. “Lucy, what’s the biggest New Year’s party in New York? Where the most important people are going to be?”

“In 1910… probably at the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel. Anyone who’s anyone would be there.”

“You mean we have to crash a fancy New Year’s party in gilded age New York?” said Rufus, looking up from the console. “Because I could get used to that kind of mission.”

“Don’t get too excited; you’ll be going as a waiter,” said Flynn laconically from where he leaned against the kitchen table, arms folded, at the same time as Lucy muttered something about 1910 not counting as the gilded age. He shot her a look as if to apologise for speaking over her.

Rufus groaned and leaned back. “Yay, institutional racism. When am I going to get to play the romantic hero?”

Jiya leaned forward and murmured something in his ear that made him perk up visibly.

“Right,” said Wyatt, stepping forward. “We’ve got a location. Let’s go! I suppose we don’t need Flynn for this,” he added hopefully. “It’s a fancy party, not a war zone. What’s the worst that could happen?”

“We have no idea,” replied Agent Christopher. “Which is exactly why you’re taking Flynn with you. You’re going straight into the unknown and we need all hands on deck. Rittenhouse have targeted this time and place for a reason and we simply don’t know what it is.”

“So you’ll give me a gun this time?”

His boss rolled her eyes. “We’ll give you a gun, Flynn. Just don’t go trigger happy on the band.”

“Depends if I like their playing.” He shot Lucy a brief grin, pleased with his own wit. She rolled her eyes. Then he brushed past Wyatt and gave him a smirk. “Sorry. Looks like you’re stuck with me.”

Not long afterwards, dressed in appropriate evening clothes, Wyatt, Rufus, Lucy and Flynn were ready to make the jump.

Jiya made an appreciative hum, her eyes moving away from Rufus to Lucy. “You are living out all my _ Downton Abbey _ fantasies right now, Lucy. You have no idea how jealous I am of you this time.”

Lucy pulled her fur wrap more securely over a floaty green dress and smiled at her friend. “I’m sure it’ll be back to mud and people trying to kill us soon enough.”

“And the Wild West,” muttered Rufus, so only Jiya could hear him. She frowned up at him.

“Not today,” she murmured back. “Today you are going to come back safe and sound and have fun in the most exciting city in the world on the best night of the year.”

He kissed her quickly. “Hey, Christopher - don’t suppose we could swap Flynn with Jiya this time round?”

“Not likely,” she replied drily.

“Hey!” called Flynn, already on the steps to the lifeboat. “Who says Jiya’s the only one with Downton Abbey fantasies?”

And if his eyes lingered on Lucy standing at the bottom of the steps looking up at him, her hand on the rail as if it were the staircase of a great atrium and she were a princess approaching her escort and preparing to make her grand entrance, she pretended not to notice.

“Save us all,” muttered Wyatt and clapped Rufus on the back. “Come on, sooner we’re gone, sooner we’re back.”

“Right,” said Lucy, and started to climb into the lifeboat, her eyes averting themselves from Flynn in his dinner jacket and wondering just what kind of fantasies he was imagining. It was strange enough imagining him sitting down to watch  _ Downton Abbey _ . It was such a, well,  _ girly  _ show.

* * *

It had been snowing in New York and recently too. The streets still gleamed and glistened in the gas lamps, not yet turned to an unattractive grey mush. Round the block from the Waldorf-Astoria, the team took stock of their situation and Wyatt and Flynn compared their hidden weapons.

Lucy was naturally in charge. “Rufus will go in the staff entrance first and keep an eye on things behind the scenes. Wyatt, Flynn and I will be guests.”

The two men agreed but both looked at each other uneasily. Lucy was anxious as well. Their relationships were still so fragile after Jessica’s return that the prospect of an evening in the company of them both and at a party in a society where forced politeness and repression was par for the course was hardly enticing. Not that spending the evening at such a party with just one of them was much better. There was too much left unsaid and Lucy would prefer not to say any of it if it could possibly be helped.

“Well, this should be a lot of fun for the three of you!” exclaimed Rufus, rubbing his hands together both as a response to the cold and to avoid the tension radiating off his companions. “Staff entrance, here we come. I’ll see you guys later. Have a… nice time?”

Lucy pulled herself together. “We’ll meet up later when it’s obvious what’s going on. And if nothing happens, then we meet back here.” As soon as Rufus had disappeared round the corner, she added crisply as she looked between Wyatt and Flynn, “We should split up. It’ll be easier to find the Rittenhouse sleeper.”

Flynn scoffed. “You think people go to these events alone? That’s a great way to stand out and look strange and lonely.”

“Flynn is right,” Wyatt managed to say without looking too disgusted with himself, probably due to what he said next. “Lucy and I will go to the party together. Flynn, you can prowl around the edges keeping watch - you shouldn’t find being strange and lonely too much of a stretch.”

“Always thinking for the good of the team,” said Flynn, baring his teeth in a sardonic smile. 

Lucy threw up her hands, the costume diamonds on her wrist glinting against the snow. “Enough! Whatever, I don’t care anymore. Fine. We’ll do Wyatt’s suggestion.”

She wished immediately she had refused because the smug look on Wyatt’s face was infuriating. He had no  _ right _ . He didn’t get to want to spend time with her. He didn’t get to hold his hand out to her like that as if they were actually going to this stupid party as a couple. And he didn’t get to look mulishly disappointed at her obvious hesitation to go with him and the way she glanced at Flynn as if his opinion was needed before she committed to any action.

“Can either of you dance?” was Flynn’s unexpected way of stalling.

Wyatt blinked. “Well, at my wedding we-”

“Salsa!” interrupted Lucy, not wanting to hear any details about Wyatt and Jessica’s wedding. “I did a bit of salsa at college.”

“Neither of you can waltz then?” At their blank looks, Flynn huffed. “You do know what goes on in these parties, don’t you? How do you think they pass the time until midnight? What do you expect they-”

“Fine, what do you suggest?” snapped Lucy. “Wyatt and I twerk our way round the dance floor?”

Flynn looked nonplussed a moment. Clearly twerking was not something in his regular vocabulary. He ignored it. “Lucy and I go together and waltz round the main room until we find Rittenhouse since I actually can dance. Looks like it’s your turn to be sad and lonely tonight, Logan.” He sounded far too happy at the prospect.

Wyatt took a step forward. “You think I don’t know exactly what you’re doing?”

Flynn also took a step forward. “Why don’t you enlighten me?”

“ _ Guys _ ! Stop it!  _ Stop  _ it! This is a mission and Rufus could already be in danger for all we know. Come on.”

Pushing past them both, she marched away - and promptly slipped on the snow, her arms flailing helplessly until a strong, warm hand grabbed her waist just before she went down. Heart pounding, she turned, expecting it to be Wyatt who caught her, only to discover it was Flynn, his expression unreadable.

“Thanks,” she muttered and stepped immediately away from him, wishing her legs did not suddenly feel so weak. The place where his hand had been remained a burning imprint on her skin through the thin silk of her evening dress.

* * *

After they had entered the hotel as Mr. and Mrs. Len Goodman and their friend Bruno Tonioli and had left their coats and Lucy’s wrap in the cloakroom, Wyatt took himself off to check in on Rufus. He had not spoken another word to either Lucy or Flynn since she had slipped.

Lucy turned back to suggest to Flynn they find the main ballroom, but frowned instead at the intense expression on his face as he looked at her. Her voice stopped in her throat. It was not as if his gaze was disrespectful or leering at seeing her in her ball gown - nothing like that. It was the gaze of a sailor far from home who thought he had caught a glimpse of land between the waves but half suspected a mirage. And that was  _ so  _ much worse.

Then it was gone and he held out an arm to invite her to precede him. With one more searching look, wondering if she had imagined the expression she had thought she had seen, she advanced through the opulent hallway, ignoring the way his fingers grazed her arm.

It was after ten o’clock, the evening well advanced, and they had missed dinner. The dancing was in full swing when they paused on the threshold of one of the most beautiful rooms Lucy had ever been in.

“It does seem like the kind of place you’d find Rittenhouse,” she murmured to Flynn. “Perhaps it’s a set-up for one of their meetings.”

“Perhaps.” He didn’t sound convinced. “At any rate, nobody’s been killed yet so we’re in time.”

Lucy did not ask whether he meant in time to prevent anyone from being killed or in time to do some killing himself. She kept her eyes on the elegant swirl of couples making their way gradually around the dance floor to the strains of a small but excellent orchestra. They were all in time, not a step out of place, it really was like a film-set of trained actors and dancers…

She turned abruptly. “I can’t do this. I can’t dance. I don’t care if you’re Fred Astaire and brilliant at leading - you know me, I have two left feet. I’ll trip up and make a scene.”

The corners of his eyes crinkled at that. “I doubt that very much, but come on. Let’s practise somewhere private first.”

Flynn glanced round and then set back off through the entrance hall and towards a side door. Lucy followed, always alert for the sudden appearance of an enemy but none came.

The door Flynn pulled open was to a room that was probably usually used as a dining room but the tables had been taken out for the big party and there was simply a scattering of chairs. Flynn immediately began moving them out of the centre of the room. Lucy ought to have helped but she suddenly felt overwhelmed. Until now, they had been surrounded by people, caught up in the flow of the mission but now they were alone together in a situation that was as far from their usual battleground as could be imagined. Faint strains of music she recognised but could not place drifted out of the ballroom and she took a deep breath, turning on the spot, her reflection multiplying in the gilt mirrors round the edge of the room. Slim and pale and in the kind of dress that made her appear delicate and sylphlike, for a moment she allowed her mind to drift off to Jiya’s  _ Downton Abbey  _ fantasies. She could almost imagine it...

Though she probably wouldn’t have chosen Flynn of all people to be her companion in such a fantasy. Flynn, currently carrying chairs four at a time across the room and dumping them unceremoniously by a wall. Matthew Crawley he was not.

(But he was tall and strong and there was intent in his every action that made him compelling to watch…)

Flynn put down the last chair and straightened, turning to her with his hands on his hips. “Well, Mrs. Goodman? Shall we dance?”

She shook her head quickly to clear the disturbing thoughts she had just been entertaining. They were here for the  _ mission _ . So that she did not draw the attention of all of upper class Manhattan by being an awful dancer. She could do this, she had to.

She cleared her throat and smiled at him. “On a bright cloud of music shall we fly?” Feeling skin-crawlingly self-conscious, she walked across the floor towards him, her heels making light tapping sounds on the polished, wooden floor and her skirts lightly swishing against her legs as she moved, the atmosphere of the evening almost making her buy into the fantasy.

“What?”

She rolled her eyes and sang lightly, “ _ Shall we dance? Shall we then say ‘goodnight’ and mean ‘goodbye’? _ ”

She came to stand right in front of him and tilted her head up to look at him. “ _ Or perchance, when the last little star has left the sky, shall we still be together with our arms around each other and shall you be my new romance? _ ”

He simply watched her as she sang, becoming increasingly confident and even swaying in time to the song. A smile was slowly blossoming over his harsh features.

“That’s not a waltz,” he said, still smiling with a teasing warmth, when she had finished and executed a clumsy, self-deprecating curtsy. 

The mood was broken. “Of course it is! They even go ‘one two three and’ all the way through!”

“Yes. One two three  _ and _ ! It’s a polka, Lucy.”

She pursed her lips. “Okay, who died and made you the waltz king? You don’t strike me as the ballroom dancing type exactly.”

He chuckled. “Oh, Lucy, Lucy, the blood of centuries of central European culture and Hapsburg rule flows through my veins.” He shrugged and added as a real explanation, “My mother made me have lessons. I actually rather enjoyed it.”

“You’re full of surprises tonight! Though I’m surprised mine didn’t. Anyway. How are we going to do this?”

“Like this.” He stepped forward, invaded her personal space and slid one hand round her waist to rest firmly on her back and with his other hand caught hers and held it at their side. She felt dwarfed and consumed by him so close up. She had to tilt her head back even further.

“Look over my right shoulder,” he ordered her. “You do not look directly at your partner during the waltz.”

She shifted her eyes to looking at his broad shoulders instead, rather glad to be able to avoid his gaze.

“What do I do with my other hand?” She clutched at his shoulder. “This?”

“Only if you want to look like a beginner. Hold you dress to keep it away from your feet.”

She did so and caught sight of their reflection in one of the wall mirrors over his shoulder and adjusted the way she was holding the dress to seem more graceful. 

“Like Audrey Hepburn in  _ My Fair Lady _ !” she exclaimed, her eyes darting to his.

A bright grin flashed across his face. “Yes - be Audrey Hepburn! Now… you always go backwards. Follow my lead.”

She felt his right leg press against hers at the same time as she took a big step backwards with her own right leg. The result was a collision and she would have overbalanced without Flynn’s hand steady and secure on her back, holding her in place flush against him.

“If I lead with my right foot, you go back with-”

“My left. I get it, Flynn.”

They readjusted their position and he stepped forwards again. This time she started with the correct foot and followed him reasonably well through the first bar of the dance, as he counted slowly, “One two three.”

“Back, side, close,” he said, as he stepped forward again, this time with his left foot. “Back, side, close. Try to relax, Lucy.” He jiggled the hand he held and Lucy realised that she was clutching his fingers so tightly it must really hurt.

“Sorry,” she muttered into his shoulder, the progress of the dance having brought them even closer together once more. She made a conscious effort to loosen her grip and rolled her shoulders to soften them. “Let’s try again.”

“Perhaps you could provide some music this time?” Flynn suggested, sounding almost reasonable, before spoiling it by adding, “Ideally in the right time signature.”

“You, Garcia Flynn,” replied Lucy in a low but feeling tone, “are an utterly infuriating man.”

He looked delighted, not that she was looking at his face, but she could hear it in his voice. “You noticed? I’ve been trying so hard!”

“Ass,” replied Lucy without rancour to avoid admitting that infuriating as he was, those occasions when they were alone together like this were the only times at the moment when she did not positively hate her life. If nothing else, he was a distraction.

“Again,” he said and counted them in before once again his leg pressed firmly against hers and she took a step back, her steps becoming smaller and lighter as she became more confident. 

As they moved slowly round the room and Flynn managed to lead her successfully round their first corner by virtue of changing the way he held her and the direction of his steps without her hardly realising she was doing a turn, she tried to think of a song that was  _ definitely  _ a waltz. She did not want to make any more embarrassing mistakes, not when he was so unexpectedly good a dancer.

(How could a man so tall and broad move so delicately, so fluidly, his limbs never leaving hers as if they were glued together?)

She cleared her throat and began to sing in a low voice slightly slower than the song went in the movie, “ _ I know you,  _ _ I walked with you once upon a dream. I know you, that look in your eyes is so familiar a gleam and I know it's true that visions are seldom all they seem but if I know you, I know what you'll do: you'll love me at once, the way you did once upon a dream _ .”

Okay, so Disney probably wasn’t as sophisticated as she usually went, but at least she was confident it was a waltz. And the tune was Tchaikovsky so that had to count for something.

Though why she cared about the level of sophistication of what she was singing when the only person who could hear her was Flynn and the only reason she was doing it was to give them a beat to dance to was somewhat obscure to her.

She repeated the verse as Flynn led her down the opposite side of the room, after taking her through another simple turn. Half way through, however, she felt his chest lift and just at the point where the prince joined in with “ _ the way that you did once upon a dream _ ” in the movie, Flynn quietly joined in with her in what she supposed must be the Croatian words to the song.

He had a baritone voice, tuneful but gravelly as if underused, and her heart and her feet missed a beat from surprise.

He stopped dancing a moment to let her recover her position before starting them off again, this time starting the verse of the song in Croatian, his voice a warm rumble she could feel down to her toes and she simply clung to him and let him lead. She was very glad she was only looking at his shoulder; she was not sure she could have met his eyes.

At the end of his verse, he brought them to a halt and released her. There was a moment of silence in which Lucy became aware of a feeling of loss now that she no longer had his hand splayed protectively on her back or her fingers engulfed in the warmth of his other hand.

Just that realisation was enough for her to look up at him and say in a voice that sounded coarse and loud in comparison but probably would have been completely normal to anyone else, “I didn’t take you for a Disney fan.”

Flynn, whose gaze had been far away, met her eyes. “I wasn’t, but Iris was.”

Lucy blinked, her eyes sliding away from him for a moment. She should have realised…

He continued, “We used to watch them in Croatian, a way for her to connect to that side of her heritage.  _ Sleeping Beauty  _ was one of her favourites. I can’t remember the last time I heard the song in English.”

A memory came unbidden to Lucy’s mind. A high school art history trip to Paris. Both she and Amy had gone and after an exhausting day traipsing round the Louvre, they had collapsed in Amy’s room at the hotel with her roomate, Chrissy Addison (how strange she should still remember her name - they’d hardly even been friends beyond that trip), and a box of macarons and turned on the TV, flicking through the channels and giggling with wonder at the weirdness of foreign advertisements, until they had come across a dubbed version of  _ Aladdin _ . They had sat and watched it all the way through and somehow  _ A Whole New World  _ had never sounded as magical as when it had been  _ Ce Rêve Bleu _ .

But that had never happened in this timeline. And little Iris who learned Croatian from watching Disney movies sitting in the arms of a father who knew all the words to the songs was dead.

She turned her eyes back to him. “I’m sorry I brought back that memory.”

He raised his eyebrows. “I won’t brush my family under the carpet, Lucy. It was a good memory.”

She took a step forward and laid her hand on his chest just below his shoulder. “Shall we try something a little faster?”

He pushed the haunted expression away along with the memories and nodded. “Now that you can do turns, we shall try the Viennese waltz or turning waltz. You should be prepared for both types.”

Lucy dared a smile. “Okay.”

“You will want to find a fixed spot in the room to watch or you will get dizzy.”

For a few beats they danced to his counts as he made every step a turn and Lucy was obliged to concentrate as he suggested, even as her mind rifled through all the songs she knew, steering clear of anything from children’s films, despite what Flynn said about it being a happy memory.

Eventually she began on a song sufficiently obscure, he might well not know it at all. “ _ Falling in love with love is falling for make-believe. Falling in love with love is playing the fool. Caring too much is such a juvenile fancy, learning to trust is just for children in school. _ ”

She risked a glance at him and saw him staring over her shoulder as he should be, a smile on his face. It made him seem younger, more relaxed. He was actually enjoying this! 

(Wasn’t she?) 

She looked away again and launched into the second verse with more gusto, “ _ I fell in love with love one night when the moon was full, I was unwise with eyes unable to see. I fell in love with love, with love everlasting, but love fell out with me! _ ”

By the time she had reached the end, she was out of breath and her head was spinning. “Enough! Flynn, enough!”

He brought them to a stop, her skirt still swirling for a moment after her legs had stopped moving. The room continued to move around her and she clutched Flynn’s shoulders with both hands, her eyes closing as the room rocked about her as if she were on a boat. The only point of stability was her partner’s body, warm and firm against her, his arms around her, steadying her. She leant her forehead against his chest and took several deep breaths. After a moment one of his hands left her back and came to rest lightly against her head.

“Wyatt,” said Flynn presently into her hair, “is a genuine  _ seronja _ .”

Lucy pulled back and stared at him. “A what?”

“He’s a shithead.”

“ _ That’s  _ what you were thinking about while we were dancing?”

He appeared to be blushing. “What can I say, Lucy? The lyrics were suggestive.”

Lucy was not sure how she felt about that. She certainly didn’t want to discuss Wyatt with Flynn at this point - or possibly ever. But the implication that  _ Falling in love with love  _ was an accurate reflection of her own situation, that on some subconscious level perhaps she had chosen it because she identified with the sentiments sat uncomfortably. If only because she recognised a small element of truth.

“Never mind that. Wyatt is who he is and that’s all there is to that. We should go. We’re not going to stop Rittenhouse hiding in here. Come on.”

She broke from him and spun around, unable to avoid the pleasant feel of her dress swirling once more. It made flouncing off so much more satisfying.

“So that’s what you think we were doing?” came Flynn’s response, quietly, before he followed her back into the atrium, shutting the door behind them.

Something light and evocative was drifting out of the ballroom and Lucy paused on the threshold. She could not perform her job if she was distracted by Flynn and whatever it was that was in the air this evening. She certainly wouldn’t be able to dance convincingly if her mind was elsewhere. She took a deep breath and turned to smile at him.

“Well, here goes nothing.”

Perhaps he had made similar resolves as he had followed her into the ballroom, for the smile he gave her was entirely gentle and supportive. He held his hand out to her, much as Wyatt had done earlier, but this time she took it, noticing how slender and pale her fingers looked in his large and calloused hands. Something that should not have been affected in any way contracted in her heart.

Flynn strode onto the dance floor with confidence, drew her into his arms once more and met her eyes, asking a question. She gave an imperceptible nod and he counted two bars under his breath so that they could fit into the rhythm of the dance. It was faster than anything they had practised and Lucy’s courage quailed for a moment. Then she did not have time to turn back because Flynn squeezed her hand in anticipation and there was that familiar pressure of his right leg against her left. They were off and all she could do was stare beyond his shoulder, count silently and follow his lead.

It was utterly terrifying.

Every moment she was afraid she would forget which foot she ought to be going back on, or her partner would steer them into another couple - so many pairs whirling around them in a blur of claret and emerald and gold! She forgot to relax and clutched at him as her legs locked together and she would surely have stumbled if he had not seemed to lift her right off the ground whenever she seemed in danger of falling.

And then, just like that, it was over. The musicians played their coda, the partners separated and applauded. Lucy tingled with relief, feeling light-headed.

“Breathe,” murmured Flynn in her ear as they stepped away from each other. “Passing out will definitely draw unwanted attention.”

Lucy gave the ghost of a laugh and forced herself to be more aware of her surroundings. As far as keeping an eye out for Rittenhouse went, that had been a dead loss as far as she was concerned.

Flynn’s eyes were on her. “Let’s get a drink. Rufus is over there by the bar.”

She followed the direction he was indicating and gave a small nod. The band was striking up a new number, something not a waltz, and they beat a rapid retreat to the side of the room, Flynn’s hand glancing over her back and helping ground her more than she cared to admit.

Rufus was watching them approach, holding a tray of champagne glasses. Flynn grabbed two glasses and handed one to Lucy who took a few desperate sips.

“Wyatt’s up in the gallery,” Rufus told them. “Good vantage point up there and he has a clear shot if he needs it. He told me what happened.” His eyes shifted curiously between the two of them. “Not bad for a beginner.”

“Only because Flynn is a good leader,” she muttered into her glass and drained all the champagne. “Have you checked out the staff?”

“As much as I can. They all seem perfectly normal. There are a few New York bigwigs here but nobody of any major historical significance that I can tell. Wyatt got hold of the guest list and is ascertaining the location of anyone who could be a target. I’m a bit stuck here until I get rid of all of these and can return to the kitchen.”

“We can help with that at least!” exclaimed Lucy and grabbed another glass. 

“Well, I’m glad you’re having fun at least,” he deadpanned, narrowing his eyes at Flynn who also took a second glass.

_ Liquid courage _ , thought Lucy. She simply had to relax. How odd that it would be this situation  that would make her so uncomfortable and not something more violent. And if she had been dancing with anyone else - Rufus or Connor or even Wyatt - would she have felt so off-kilter?

With another burst of applause, the dance came to an end.

“We should go,” said Flynn, his hand once more on Lucy’s back. “Come along, Mrs. Goodman.”

“Yes.” She replaced her glass on Rufus’ tray, avoiding his eyes.

It was another waltz, slightly slower than the previous one, and Lucy found herself recognising the tune from college musical theatre productions -  _ Pirates of Penzance _ .

“Ready, Lucy?” asked Flynn, his voice low as they stepped into a waltz hold once more. “You’ve got this. Just remember to breathe!”

She hesitated, took a breath and then exhaled. “Yes, I am ready.”

He smiled at her as he began to dance and she could not help smiling back.

Perhaps it was the two glasses of champagne. Perhaps it was the more relaxed tempo of this waltz. Perhaps it was the familiarity of the music. Perhaps she was becoming used to the feel of being enveloped by Flynn. Whatever reason, she relaxed. Her feet danced of their own accord, her body responded to her partner’s and although she did not sing the words out loud, she kept time by imagining the lyrics going through her head.

_ “Poor wand’ring one, though thou hast surely strayed, take heart of grace, thy steps retrace, poor wand’ring one!” _

What could be a more appropriate song for Garcia Flynn to dance to, she mused. Had he not taken heart of grace and retraced his steps since he had joined the team? And he was indeed on their team, she realised. Or at least on hers. He had been helpful, supportive, brave, and just - there. More than anyone. It seemed foolish to fight him, especially when his fingers were warm and skated over her back, separated from her skin by only a thin piece of moss green silk. If only the others could see him as she did.

She sighed lightly and quite unbeknownst to herself curled herself closer to her partner, fitting her arm around him, angling her body more perfectly against his. It brought his cheek close to her hair and she felt him also sigh. For the first time since they had entered the ballroom, she understood the magic of the waltz and allowed the atmosphere of the party to take her over.

When it finally finished and Flynn stepped away from her with a reluctance she couldn’t have imagined and said, “I don’t see Rufus,” she realised she had forgotten all about Rittenhouse.

Quickly, she brought her attention back to the mission and scanned the faces of the ladies and gentlemen surrounding them for anything suspicious. 

“He must have gone back to the staff area.”

“Probably for more champagne.”

Lucy smiled. “Poor Rufus - he always misses out on the fun bits in missions.”

“Ah, so you admit this is fun?”

She rolled her eyes but felt her cheeks warm. “It is now. Earlier, not so much. But what I really want to know, Flynn,” she added, turning to him and continuing quickly before he could get too smug, “is how you are so good at dancing. I’ve seen you fight - you’re brutal! And yet - the waltz?!” She shook her head. “I don’t get it.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Lucy. A fight, a dance, they are the same thing.”

“Excuse me?” 

(He was going to be smug but she didn’t find she cared much.)

“In both there is a relationship between two people, a tension tugging them towards and away from each other, in both there is a rhythm, there is choreography, in both you have awareness of your partner’s responses and adaptation to them until finally - bam! The dance ends, the trigger is pulled. And there you have it, Lucy. Obvious really.”

He was watching her intently, a look in his eyes that was not purely smugness, and Lucy blamed the champagne for why she found it were ideas of neither dancing nor fighting occupying her mind at that moment.

“You are so full of shit,” she deflected, disturbed to find herself still breathless.

“You think?”

A microphone buzzed and Lucy was glad to look towards the orchestra where an important looking man had come onto the podium and was calling for their attention.

“Ladies and gentlemen, it has been a pleasure and an honour to have your company tonight at the Waldorf Astoria as we dance our way into the new decade. But the evening is coming to an end. I know - I know - I am devastated too! But gentlemen, do not forget that our Valentine’s Ball is only just round the corner and I can see many of you will not want to be disappointing your lovely partners! In just a few minutes we will begin our countdown to midnight but before, let’s all hear it for Jack Maloy and his wonderful orchestra!”

There was a round of applause. Under its cover, Lucy stood on tiptoe and whispered, “We should find Rufus and Wyatt.”

Flynn shrugged. “Let them find us! Besides, we can’t leave now.”

He had a point; they had finished the previous dance right in the middle of the floor and to elbow their way through the crowd now would be very conspicuous, especially when the final waltz was being announced.

With a little shrug of resignation and to hide the fact that she was really pleased to have one final dance, Lucy stepped back into Flynn’s arms and after sharing a small but genuine smile, found herself swept away into the familiar strains of the Blue Danube waltz.

It was very quick but she was ready this time and simply gave herself up to the pleasure of the dance. Never mind Rittenhouse - nothing had happened and surely wouldn’t now. There were no important people here, no recognisable agents… Flynn’s words came back to her and she acknowledged their truth at least on one level - oh yes, there was a relationship, a tension, a tug, an awareness, a response… all happening without any words being exchanged. It made her wonder… oh, it did make her wonder about  _ other things  _ and now that she had started, she couldn’t stop, not with his leg pressing between hers, not with his fingers curling round hers, not with every infinitesimal pressure of his hand on her back guiding her into turns that she somehow knew how to do without being taught. The dance, short though it was, was quickly becoming a form of slow, burning torture.

And then it was over and the lights were dimmed and the famous Jack Maloy was leading the band in shouting a countdown that was eagerly taken up by the couples on the dancefloor and those around the side of the room.

Flynn did not release Lucy and she made no move to step out of the security of his embrace - and it  _ was  _ a security. It felt like being in a warm cocoon of their own making, surrounded by alien people of a different time. And with that feeling came another one as she realised that she did not know what was traditional at midnight in 1910. Did people kiss? Almost as if they shared the same thoughts, she glanced at him, found him watching her with a kind of wariness…

“Three!” shouted the revellers who’d all, it seemed, had a bit too much champagne.

Yes, this was the moment, Lucy thought wildly, her heart pounding and her lips tingling in anticipation. She could kiss him now and it would mean nothing. It wasn’t even him, not really, it was just that she had been thinking - and now she wanted - It could have been anyone.

“Two!”

She could deny all responsibility afterwards, claim tradition as an excuse. It wouldn’t even be a long kiss, just a peck - perfectly normal for new year, just keeping their cover… nothing to it. Just to satisfy the need that was rising within her that was all about the situation and the music and the dress and the lights and -

“One!”

She was frozen, caught in the depth of his gaze, her heart so tight it was almost painful. Her eyes darted from his to his lips and back again and his did the same. He wanted to kiss her too. His hand on her arm tightened. All it would take was -

“Lucy! Flynn!”

It was Wyatt. They sprang apart as if stung and whirled round to see him push through the cheering, kissing crowd who were starting to form themselves into a circle as the band struck up Auld Lang Syne, the sound of fireworks still going off from the party in Times Square. Lucy felt on fire, her cheeks flaming, her dress sticking to her. 

“We’ve got to go - come on! Now!”

Flynn glanced at her, a brief, inscrutable glance - but his eyes wandered to her lips and she felt a pang of - of something - regret, desire, humiliation, longing - it was too hard to identify it. Then he had grabbed her hand and they began to push through the crowd.

Rufus was waiting for them in the atrium. “We got him!” he said as soon as they joined him.

The mission! Of course: the mission.

“Who?” Lucy cried. “Who was it? What do you mean you got him?”

“No time to explain,” said Wyatt. “We shoved him in a laundry closet but it’s only a matter of time until he’s found. We need to get back to the lifeboat. Assuming you too have finished up here.” His expression was ugly.

Lucy could not look at Flynn. Her desire had shrivelled with Wyatt’s distaste. “Yes, we’re all finished.”

They followed Rufus out of the hotel, slipping and sliding through the New York streets where the snow was turning icy, past couples and groups shouting, “Happy New Year!” to each other. It was a merry atmosphere but Lucy’s enjoyment had died and she just felt a growing sense of shame that somehow she had been so fixated on some bizarre and inexplicable attraction to Garcia Flynn ( _ Flynn _ ! It was ridiculous) that she had completely failed to pay any attention to the mission. Thank goodness Wyatt and Rufus were more on the ball.

“So who were Rittenhouse after?” she asked once they had tumbled into the lifeboat.

“Tommy Sullivan,” said Wyatt as he buckled himself in and didn’t help Lucy. “Got to him just in time.”

“Tommy Sullivan?” asked Flynn with a frown. He shrugged. “Never heard of him.”

But Lucy understood. “He’s a politician at Tammany Hall. Notoriously corrupt, but later in 1911 he will pass the Sullivan Act, requiring licenses for small firearms. It’s an early form of gun control and was quite controversial in many ways. It seems minor but-”

“Just imagine how bad our gun control would be without even basic things like that in place,” finished off Rufus. “I’m not saying it’s exactly great now but at least we have  _ something _ .”

He hit the controls and the lifeboat roared away from the early hours of 1911.

Later, when Christopher had finished debriefing them and a rather subdued Wyatt had disappeared with Jessica and Rufus had followed Jiya to their room, his eyes lighting up when he saw her brandish a vintage fan in a come-hither way, Lucy flopped onto the sofa. She had a splitting headache. Time travel and champagne was not a good combination.

She heard his footsteps approach but did not look up.

“For old time’s sake?”

Now she turned and there he was, standing by the sofa in his casual jeans and dark turtle neck once more, but holding out his hand to her as he had done a few hours and a century ago earlier.

Her heart contracted.

“What stays in 1910 stays in 1910?” she suggested, trying to make a joke.

His gaze was steady. “It doesn’t have to.”

There was something so extraordinarily tempting about such an offer that her fingers itched to take his hand and be pulled into his arms again or perhaps even to tug him down onto the sofa with her.

But she remembered Wyatt’s face when he saw them together at midnight, thought of how awkward everything already was in the bunker, felt the shadows of Lorena and Iris and Amy and what might have been hang over them.

“Not now, Garcia. But I’ll have a beer, if you like?” It was a peace offering, of sorts, a consolation prize.

She was not ready to bring their dance into the present. 

Not yet.


End file.
